


Pretzels

by page_runner



Series: Pretzels [1]
Category: Leverage
Genre: Developing Relationship, Multi, Pre-OT3, With a side of angst, fluff and pretzels, i guess?, it's fluff guys, miscommunications about the meaning of pretzels, ot3 inception?, post-rundown job
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 12:07:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8013160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/page_runner/pseuds/page_runner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“...all I’m sayin’, girl, is that Eliot’s definition of pretzels is a bit more bread-based than yours is.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pretzels

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this [tumblr post](http://pagerunner.tumblr.com/post/150271724745/celestialshimmer-kanthia-gilajames) about the interpol pretzel cart. Because PRETZELS.

Whatever Nate and Sophie had gotten up to while they were away in D.C. must have involved Sterling. The Interpol pretzel cart was back, parked across the street with its bright umbrella opened against the drizzle. Eliot casually checked it out as he started unloading Hardison and Parker’s luggage, before Hardison, who’d been wrapped up in some stupid debate with their driver about a taxi service you call with an app, jumped out of the taxi in alarm.

“Eliot, man, you got a bullet hole in your shoulder, you want to at least _try_ not to rip out your stitches?”

 _Great, announce that to the whole block, why don’t you_. “Dammit Hardison, I’m _fine_.” Not a denial. Him and Hardison just had a long-standing disagreement on the definition of ‘fine’.

He’d been planning on having the taxi take him back to his place—well, several blocks from his place, just in case someone got to the guy later—after dropping off Hardison and Parker off at the brew-pub. Crash out for a few days while muscle knit back together and give the other two some space. But if Interpol was back, others could be here soon as well. Or it could just be Sterling’s version of a wave across the room. Next time Sterling dared to come a little closer, he’d get Eliot’s version. There was a lot more contact in Eliot’s version.

 _Obvious answer is to cut and run, or at least it should be._ Damn, he was getting tired of blowing up headquarters, relocating, setting up new security measures. _You going soft, Spencer? Getting lazy will get you and your team dead._ He shook Vance’s voice out of his head. He could be paranoid all on his own just fine, hadn’t needed Vance to do it for him for a damn long time now.

Anyway, it wasn’t that he was getting lazy. Last time they’d had to pick up and run, Hardison had gone and bought a damn brew-pub— _Remember to update the menu when you get a chance, couple of the entrees could complement that cardamom note in the new wit with a bit of tweaking—_ and he didn’t want to see what kind of crazy place he’d try next. That was all.

He cast another look over his shoulder as the breeze picked up. It was definitely the Interpol cart. The guy who manned it used a very distinctive blend of herbs in his asiago option. He should know—he’d given him the recipe.

For all Hardison’s objections, he hadn’t actually started helping unload, still bickering with the damn driver, so Eliot hauled out Parker’s suitcase as she came round to join him. The thing was much heavier than it looked and he felt a sharp pinch in his shoulder, followed by a warm, wet sensation. _Well, fuck._

“Told ya.” _Now_ Hardison turned up, his warm hands brushing Eliot’s as he took the suitcase with a grunt. Eliot considered resisting, partly to annoy him and partly— _nah, just to annoy him._ “Parker, babe, what the hell have you got in here?”

“Souvenirs.” She came to stand next to Eliot, completely obliterating the concept of personal space, and followed his gaze to the cart. “Interpol?”

“Looks like.”

She rested her chin on his shoulder. “You know what I’m in the mood for?”  It was the one lacking a bullet hole, so he should have come up with another reason to brush her off, re-establish boundaries he’d never been good at enforcing with her anyway. He didn’t.

“What?” He liked the slight weight, the sharpness of her chin digging into muscles still tense from the flight. If he was staying, he’d make the three of them something, now that he had a kitchen back and they weren’t dead. They stayed with him to fight a terrorist, for godsakes. He should cook them dinner, let the food say the words that always got caught in his throat.

“Pretzels.” He could hear the warmth in her voice, something in her tone almost lustful, which was weird, but then Parker’s relationship with food was anything but normal. For a while after the truffle job, she’d assigned emotions to everything he’d cooked, informing him that the crepes he’d made one morning after he’d crashed on their couch were “happy,” but the penne he made for lunch was “grumpy.” He’d told her food was about the feelings of the person eating it, so it tasted different for everyone, once it was plated, it was no longer about the chef.

The thing was, he _had_ been happy, making those crepes. Early morning sun filtering in as he prepped the batter, Parker bouncing around him while Hardison, dragged out of bed at what he considered an ungodly hour, tried to go back to sleep while perched on a barstool. He’d found reasons to stick around, make lunch too, but by then they’d been talking over each other, planning some kind of weird date for that night, and he’d almost burned the sauce, eavesdropping on something he had no business listening to.

After D.C., and given the way Parker was now leaning against him, maybe it was best if he didn’t cook for her quite yet. He’d buy her a pretzel and scope out the surveillance situation at the same time. “Yeah, sounds good to me.”

Parker moved suddenly, warm presence at his shoulder gone, and he shoved down his disappointment, only to have it replaced with complete surprise.

He was being kissed.

By Parker.

Her lips were hard and insistent, almost an attack. It was not the same way she kissed Hardison, soft and slow with oddly shy, radiant smiles. Not that he’d been watching...intentionally. They were just annoyingly obvious about it. But she kissed him the same way she dove off balconies, crash-landing on top of him, certain he would be ready for her.

He wasn’t ready. Not for this. It took his brain a moment to comprehend what was happening, and a moment more to realize whatever crazy reason Parker had, he should definitely not be kissing her back.

“Parker! Get off me!” He shoved her away, harder than he intended, and she staggered back, hurt and confused. “What the hell was that for?” He’d gotten so good at _not_ thinking about kissing Parker. She wasn’t his, not like that. He was hers—theirs—for as long as they’d have him, but kissing either of them wasn’t part of that deal.

“You said you wanted _pretzels_ ,” she snapped, sudden anger making her hair almost vibrate as she whirled, picked up her brick-lined bag like it weighed nothing, and stalked into the brew-pub.

Eliot risked a glance at Hardison, eyebrows raised. “I didn’t—”

Hardison raised his hand, forestalling Eliot’s stuttered attempt at an apology. “Don’ worry man, we cool.” He winked, and Eliot could have sworn he saw him flick his tongue over his lips as he turned to follow Parker, awkwardly managing the rest of the luggage—including Eliot’s single duffle.

He should just go back to his place. Give them space to work out whatever the hell just happened. Just pick up his stuff later, when things were back to baseline weird.

Except the taxi was gone. And Sterling’s damn pretzel truck was still sitting there, watching him.

Did Parker actually _want_ a pretzel? If he got them all pretzels maybe they could all just ignore the kiss. Write it off as Parker being Parker. They could just forget it. He licked his lips, tasting hints of the candy she’d been eating on the plane. He could forget it. _The way her tongue had—_ Shaking his head, he pushed his hand across his mouth.

Left without anything to carry, slightly bleeding, and with plenty of incentive not to go inside just yet, Eliot headed across the street to the pretzel cart.

“Hey, Stefan, been a while, _wie geht’s_?” Stefan was Sterling’s response to Eliot’s constant jibes about the terrible pretzels, and the various other food cart surveillances he’d put up. Somehow he’d found a German agent who used to be a baker. Gotta hand it to Sterling, he had an eye for the little things. Maybe they could talk dough and he could forget about Parker’s kiss... _and how Hardison had seemed into it..._

“ _Gut, du auch, ja?_ ” He winked and switched to English, “You should have kissed her back, very enthusiastic, she was.”

 _Or not._ “She ain’t mine to kiss,” Eliot muttered. “Just give me three pretzels, the usuals, and stay out of it.”

He carried the bag inside, and made it halfway up the back staircase before Hardison’s voice registered from up above him. Eliot paused, leaned back against the wall, and, against his better judgement,  listened.

_“...all I’m sayin’, girl, is that Eliot’s definition of pretzels is a bit more bread-based than yours is.”_

_“Well, that’s stupid. Why would he think that?”_

_“No idea, babe. Completely ridiculous to think pretzels had anything to do with bread.”_

_“We should clarify that for him.”_

_“...Clarify how, exactly?”_

_“You need to kiss him. He was clearly confused by me kissing him.”_

_“Uh-huh. And me kissing Eliot is absolutely gonna clear up the definition of pretzels.”_

_“Well, duh.”_

_“Parker, if Eliot does like kissing guys, he’s so far in the closet, he’s boardin’ the Dawn Treader.”_

Eliot’s hands tightened compulsively on the paper sack and winced as it crackled, over-loud in the enclosed space. Hurriedly, he turned and headed back downstairs.

He must have looked threatening enough that the kitchen staff didn’t say anything when he took over a workstation and started chopping garlic. Hardison appeared a moment later and pulled up a stool, watching him.

“You know, you’re violatin’ like fifteen different health codes with that shoulder bleeding, right?” He leaned on the counter, going for casual and doing a damn sight better of it than Eliot was currently managing.

Eliot tossed the garlic and a slice of butter in a pan. It didn’t sizzle. Dammit. _What kind of dumbass forgets to turn on the burner?_ Pull yourself together. He twisted the knob, ignoring Hardison.

“Wonder what Nate and Sophie been up to, since we got Sterling on our ass again.” Still conversational. He should just grunt, mutter something non-committal. Wasn’t like the baseline he’d established for conversations was a high bar, but between Parker’s kiss and Hardison’s—

He didn’t know what he was making. Plenty of things started with sauteing garlic, and if Hardison would just go away, he’d think of the next step to one of them. And the step after that. _And you wouldn’t be thinking about—_

“I ain’t opposed, you know.” Hardison’s voice was low, non-threatening, and Eliot wanted to grind his teeth in frustration. “You wouldn’t be the first guy I…” He glanced up, saw Eliot’s face, and let the sentence trail off.

Eliot forced his eyes back down, intent on the knife blade. Everyone else in the kitchen seemed to be pointedly ignoring them, but he thought he could feel their eyes sneaking glances, ears strained. Stupid. What did they care. What did he care? He didn’t need to care. It was just a habit. A very old habit. Type of thing that was rote by now.

He set the knife down and stalked off into the brewery itself, focusing on the dull throb radiating from his leg on every step. That was fine, grounded him. _You’ve had worse._

He stopped between two towering kettles and exhaled slowly, tasting the slight, distinct bite of hops in the air. A slight scuff told him Hardison had followed, tripping over his own feet as usual, but he took another moment before turning around.

“Hey man, we don’t have to talk about this. We do have to stitch up that shoulder again, though.”

“S’okay. Had worse.” He’d always found the mantra a useful motivator, but Hardison’s lips thinned and twisted in distaste when he said it.

“Look, I know I’m the geek here, but not everything in this world exists in a binary state. That’s just for computers, you got me?”

Finally, firm ground. He rarely got Hardison’s pidgin of geek, nerd, and dork and the familiar exasperation bubbled to the surface, reclaimed his tongue. “No, I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, Hardison!” It drove him nuts, trying to parse the two of them, with Hardison’s nerd-talk and Parker’s non-sequiturs. Every time he thought he’d got them figured out, worked out an equilibrium, they’d surprise him again. Like changing the meaning of the word pretzel. How did anyone stay sane trying to deal with them? _And what’s that say about you, huh Spencer?_

“I’m saying, you can be other things than zero: dead,” he curved his right thumb and index finger into an ‘O’, “and one: not dead.” He held up his left index finger, apparently oblivious to the innuendo. Eliot stared at the shapes and tried to think of _anything_ but the obvious. He’d touched Hardison’s hands plenty of times, _bump-slap-slap, everything’s cool._ Nothing had changed. His mind was absolutely _not_ heading straight for the gutter right now.

He shook his head, both in negation and to clear it. “No, I can’t. Otherwise I don’t know if I’m gonna face down the next crazy terrorist shooting at me from five feet away. It’s a binary type of situation!” _In a binary type of situation, you would not be thinking about his fingers._

His answer was bullshit and they both knew it, but Hardison usually let him get away with the bullshit after cursory needling. Unlike Parker, who poked and poked and poked. Literally. Or Sophie, who’d just know. Or Nate, who didn’t care, unless it was related to the job.

“Bull. Shit.” _So much for that out._ “Eliot, man, you charge at people with guns so often you basically a bull goin’ after the color red.”

Eliot blinked, surprised. Hardison should know that was a common misconception. “They-they don’t care about the red, they care about the perceived threat. See the trick is...” The explanation died on his lips at Hardison’s smirk. _Oh._

“Walked right into that one.” He folded his arms, serious again. “I dunno _how_ you do the crazy-ass shit you do, Eliot, but I do know _why_. And it ain’t a binary state at all.”

“You gonna hit a point anytime soon?” He didn’t want to be talking about this. About any of it. He’d charged the guy with the gun because that was his job and he did his job and better him doing it than anyone else. But it wasn’t like he had a death wish or anything.  

“Getting there. Quit sayin’ ‘you’ve had worse’.” He put it in air quotes. “Don’t tell me that before you saw that pretzel truck you weren’t about to leave home and hightail it back to one of your hidey-holes to lick your wounds and not answer your phone unless one of us sent an SOS, cause you ain’t no use to us laid up. It ain’t healthy.”

“It ain’t any of your business,” he snapped and regretted it the moment it left his lips, his thoughts tangled in Hardison’s use of the word “home”. People (Nate) had always been living in the headquarters Hardison established, and Hardison and Parker lived here, nothing significant about the home comment. _Why is it Hardison who always sets up these places?_ Sure, there were practical reasons, but Hardison took a special glee in giving them a home base. Eliot took a special glee in bitching about it, even as he understood what was going on. He wasn’t an idiot. But—

He didn’t need to rationalise any of numerous tracks his brain seemed to be running on currently. They worked as a team, and they’d just taken out a terrorist as a team, and everything was good.

 _So what the fuck is the pretzel thing about?_   

“What’s the pretzel thing about?” It might not be a safe topic, but it was Parker-related and therefore safer than him-related. He remembered Parker saying it before, but Parker said a lot of weird things, was in the mood for a lot of weird things. There’d been a month where she’d only eaten dry fruit loops for godsakes. He and Hardison figured out how to manufacture identical cereal that looked and tasted the same, but with actual nutrients. Now at least he could get Parker to eat healthy stuff as long as he made it interesting, and Hardison would eat anything that involved science.

Goddamn children.

Hardison shrugged, going for casual and almost hitting it. “Shorthand inspired by Parker. For use by the emotionally stunted people I fall in love with. Very useful for people who get squeamish about the L word. When you want it— _if_ you want it—it’s all yours.” He stayed perfectly still, like Eliot was some spooked horse he was trying to catch. Eliot felt like a spooked horse right about now, so it wasn’t as if Hardison was going about this _wrong_ , he just wasn’t sure what _right_ was. Or what he wanted it to be.

“ _I’m_ emotionally stunted?!” _Great cover there, Spencer._

Hardison held up his hands. “Hey, you charge at people holding guns, but eavesdrop and then run away from conversations. You tell me.”

“I wasn’t running away! But I ain’t walking into a discussion about whether or not I like guys.” He folded his arms, grateful for the ache in his shoulder. “Especially not with you and Parker, that’s just weird.”

“Because you do like both of us and you have for years, but you never said anything?”

“You had a thing for her from day one!” That wasn’t a denial, technically.

“Damn straight. I know what I like, but I’m not pushy and Parker needed to figure some stuff out first. Like ‘pretzels.’” Air-quotes again, but somehow he still managed to make it sound sincere. “But every time I think I get a read on you, the tune changes. Don’t get me wrong, I like a man of mystery, but I’m gettin’ the feeling that you’re more scared of whatever’s goin’ on here, than you were in that subway car. And that isn’t okay, Eliot.”

“I ain’t scared.” _That_ was a denial.

“Man, I’m scared of just about everything, I think I know what it looks like.” He bit his lip, then rushed on before Eliot could say anything. “I didn’t mean it’s not okay to be scared. I meant, I ain’t okay with you being scared _of_ me. For any reason.”

He had been scared of Hardison before. Scared in a way he’d never been with Parker. The man was an insatiable pit of curiosity equipped with the skill to dig up just about any information he wanted. He was scared of the look he’d see in Hardison’s eyes if he finally gave in and dug up Eliot’s dirt. He was scared of Hardison looking past him, unable to meet his eyes, bump fists, tease him, harass him, insist on hugs, on food, on video games and movie nights and pointless week-long arguments about nothing at all.

But he never had. Not even after Moreau nearly drowned him and Eliot had been forced to carry on the negotiations like his best friend wasn’t at the bottom of a pool, because to let on to Moreau that Hardison _mattered_ to Eliot was to sign his death certificate. He’d taken weeks to forgive Eliot for that, but he still hadn’t pried into Eliot’s past.   

He’d been scared _for_ Hardison. In D.C., sure, but even with his foot on that plate trigger, Eliot knew they’d come up with a solution. That somehow, he’d save them, even if it meant yanking them out of the way and taking the blast. Parker’d pulled him back from that ledge. Second time that day she’d done that, just by being Parker.

But last year. Hardison already in a grave, running out of time, and Parker holding him steady as if she wasn’t about to lose it herself. He’d done his job, hit the people that needed to be hit, got there in time. He’d known it was personal, of course it was personal. But until his face was buried in Hardison’s neck, listening to his ragged, gasping breaths, mumbling shit he couldn’t remember now because words meant nothing, not compared to the enormity of what he’d almost lost—he hadn’t _known_. He doubted Parker had either, but somehow, in the following days, weeks, months, she’d stepped forward, faced her fears.

And he’d stepped back, decided it was better that way. As always. Hardison started asking for Parker advice, and the two of them were a thing, and he’d respect boundaries even if they didn’t. Mostly. _So what if I’ve been finding excuses to touch him? They were good excuses. Reassurance (for him). Protection (for him). A goddamn crutch (for me)._

That last reminded him of his leg, on fire now, and he shifted his weight carefully, keeping his expression even. Last thing he needed was Hardison coddling him. “It was always easier to ignore,” he admitted finally.

“What? Bullet holes or boys?”

“Both.” He shrugged, forgetting himself in an attempt to make the admission offhand, and winced before he could control it.

Hardison crossed the short distance between them, pulling off his scarf and wadding it up.  “Yeah, cause you always do things the easy way.”

“‘M gonna ruin it,” he warned Hardison, too late to stop him from pressing the bundle over the bullet hole.

He wouldn’t let go of the fabric, wouldn’t let Eliot take it from him and do it his own damn self. “So? I gave you the option of talking or getting stitched up. We’re still down here, so I guess you’re going with option A?” He could have grabbed it and stepped away. He didn’t.

Hardison moved slightly behind Eliot, which made his application of pressure better, but also meant Eliot could talk without looking at him. It reminded him of Parker standing by his shoulder earlier—and the three of them in D.C., standing back to back as the feds closed in. It felt... _right_. He found himself leaning slightly against Hardison, just to take the weight off the shot up leg, that was it.

“So Parker uses ‘pretzels’ as a stand in for...love?” He forced himself to say the word because he was _not_ emotionally stunted, and he was _not_ scared of a stupid word, and what kind of stupid language has only one word for something that big and complex anyway? Parker had the right idea. Parker usually, after you dusted off the psychoses and twisted it this way and that, had the right idea. Sometimes he thought she stole them, those ideas. Scoped out a person and lifted their ideas, the valuable ones only, of course. She’d guard them jealously, tuck them away in some hidey-hole, perhaps to be used later, perhaps not.

“Yeah, well, things take on the meaning you put into them.”

There were times when Hardison bragged about how smart he was and Eliot grumbled and rolled his eyes because the guy had an ego the size of Kilimanjaro. And there were the times when Hardison didn’t think he was smart enough and Eliot needed to bolster him up, because if Eliot knew anything it was how to be a rock solid foundation. And then there were the times when Hardison was casually brilliant. When he didn’t seem to notice he’d said or done something that shifted Eliot’s foundation. As statements went, that one shouldn’t have been earth shattering. They were con artists, after all. Making things take on the meaning they’d crafted was their _job_.

And yet. Here he was, wondering about all the things Hardison did and the intention behind them. And all the things he himself thought, and the meaning he’d given them.

He let out a breath he’d been holding for decades.

“You don’t tell the guy in 4H that you wanna go to the dance with him. Not when there’s a girl you find just as pretty.” He paused, but Hardison didn’t say anything, waiting him out. “You don’t tell your C.O. you like him; you don’t look twice at a guy, any guy, and that makes it easier. Cause you ain’t lying. You like women and they like you. Nothin’ wrong with that.” He knew he sounded defensive. It was hard to explain, especially the distracting warmth of Hardison at his back.

“I get that. But you ain’t in a podunk town and you ain’t on a base, and no one in either of those places is gonna mess with you. Not that we’d let ‘em. You’re home.” His voice, still light, brushed past Eliot’s ear. Somehow they’d become further entwined.

Somehow he hadn’t noticed.

There were two categories of people who’d hold him from behind. Attackers and Parker. Both employed an element of surprise. One got piggy-back rides. Hardison did not belong in either category. There was no element of surprise with him, nothing sudden, nothing startling. He’d incorporated himself into Eliot’s space seamlessly, and Eliot understood how Parker, so easily spooked by human interaction, had come out of her shell for him.

He’d screw this up. He didn’t do relationships, not since Aimee, and it was better that way. Less complications, less people who could be taken, held as blackmail, put in danger simply by being important to him.

_Kinda late for that, ain’t it? You’re in so deep, looks like only option is to stop fighting and see if you sink. Or float._

_Stop fighting._

He let his head fall back against Hardison’s shoulder and closed his eyes. It did kinda feel like floating. Hardison made a low, pleased noise, deep in his chest, and the vibrations sent prickles down his spine.

_I could sleep here. Maybe._

“You _still_ haven’t kissed him?” Both Eliot and Hardison jumped slightly, and looked up, _way up_ to see Parker somehow perched on top of a kettle, munching on one of the forgotten pretzels. Eliot had no clue who she was addressing, not that it really mattered. How the hell was she secure on the side of a giant, stainless steel cone?

The question didn’t seem to register with Hardison either. “You bought her a cinnamon sugar one? Dammit Eliot, you know how sticky her fingers get? And she’s gonna get it all over my sheets.”

“Ooh we should do breakfast in bed!” Parker announced, grin splitting her face.

“No, nu-uh, no way, no food in my bed. ‘Sides if I’m workin’ this hard to get Eliot into bed, there’s no way I’m letting him leav—”

_Oh, what the hell._

Eliot whirled around and grabbed the back of Hardison’s neck, pulling him in. His lips were soft, curving against Eliot’s in a smile he couldn’t quite contain. It made for an awkward kiss, but he loved making Hardison smile, loved startling him into sudden silence. Of all the ways he’d tried to make the guy shut up, and he’d never tried kissing him?

“You talk too much,” Eliot muttered finally, embarrassed.

“If you plan on using that to make me shut up, I’m gonna talk twenty-four seven, jus’ to give you incentive.”

“Dammit Hardison—” He was about to demonstrate exactly how effective that strategy would be, when Parker, somehow down from her perch in that instant, pulled him back around. This time she tasted of cinnamon sugar.

Hardison, still pressed against him, murmured something unintelligible, face buried in Eliot’s hair. The sound converted into vibrations against his spine and he leaned back, lifting Parker with him. To hell with the stitches.

Yeah. He could go for pretzels.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Eventually this'll have three parts, cause i like triptychs and hardison and parker will not shut up until i give them a chance at being the voice, which is fine by me.


End file.
